


Tintin in Paris

by the_kav



Category: Tintin
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:24:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_kav/pseuds/the_kav
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A runaway orphan leaves Belgium and ends up in Paris, where he works his way up from delivery boy to international reporter. Set before the start of the series: modernised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Tintin, of course, does not belong to me. He belongs to  **everyone.** More specifically, he belongs to the Hergé Foundation and Moulinsart.

* * *

 **One**

* * *

He hopped down from the train, wincing as the strap of his bag wrapped itself painfully around his hand and began to pinch his skin. Because of this, his head was down as he scrabbled to release the loop that had worked its way around his fingers. He took two or three steps forward before his painful dilemma was at an end and he was finally able to raise his head and take a look at Paris.

La Gare du Nord was huge. He wandered along, slightly dazed as he followed the signs to the exit. It was, he knew, one of the busiest train stations in Europe, so the huge crowd was to be expected, but the word  _crowd_ seemed like an understatement of how busy it was, but for the life of him he couldn't think of a single word that could sum it up.

Still dazed, he left the chill shadows of the train station and stepped out in to the city. He turned left with the flow of people around him and looked around. A grin involuntarily plastered itself onto his face. He was sick with nerves as the enormity of what he'd done finally hit home: he had run away to Paris. It was the furthest he'd ever been from home. Sure, he'd run away before, but the farthest he'd ever gotten was Antwerp, when he'd been picked up at the wharf trying to get work on some boat or other. He'd only been ten then – a mere child – and had harboured romantic dreams about sailing the world and having adventures, but now, at the manly age of thirteen and a quarter, he was sure he had it all figured out.

Run away.  _Done_.

Get to Brussels.  _Done_.

Get to Paris.  _Done_.

Don't get caught.  _Well, we'll see._

First things first, he needed a place to stay. He'd sorted that out a while ago, using the computers in the library in town to browse estate agencies and letting agencies, until he'd found a cheap bed-sit – and it was a bed-sit, he was certain, no matter how the landlord had tried to gussy it up by calling it a studio apartment – in the city. It wasn't in the best part of course, but it was close to the city centre and he could afford it. He'd already paid his first month's rent and had an appointment to pick up the keys in an hour.

It had actually disappointed him when he realised how short the journey was. He'd imagined it would be epic; days of dramatic weather hampering their train, and a blizzard battering them (even though it was May and the weather had been perfectly pleasant all over Europe) and an eerie, atmospheric piece of music playing throughout it all, but when he'd been on the phone with the landlord, who'd asked him what time he could pick up the keys, he'd checked the time-table and saw that it was less than two hours from Brussels to Paris, and a little voice inside his head had said; "Aww!" and hung its head in sorrow.

He'd been terrified when he'd boarded the Eurostar in Bruxelles-Midi. He'd gotten there early, and had sat practically chewing the seat in front of him for fifteen minutes, certain that any second now the gendarmes would arrive and cart him back to the children's home. The seconds had ticked by slowly and when the train jolted underneath him he'd almost cried in relief. For most of the first hour, he kept his hood up, hoping it would hide his face, but after a while he forgot about that and stared avidly out of the window, trying to chart each and every sight he saw, so he could remember everything. He'd store it up and think about it later, when there was time to digest it all.

It flashed by quickly, and soon after that he was in Paris, and now he was there. He was  _there_ , surrounded by it all. He could smell the Sienne before he could see it, and when he had finally seen it he had stopped and stared, amazed that more people around him weren't doing the same. But Paris was big, and Paris was busy, and the Parisians weren't happy with gawking tourists. He was bumped into and pushed aside as he made his way to the letting agency, carefully following the directions he had been given earlier that morning.

It was located beside a grimy-looking arcade. He entered the small door set in the red-brick façade of the building and knocked at the first door he could see. A woman in a grubby business suit opened it and stared at him.

"Hi," he said. "My name's Tintin. I'm looking for Monsieur Douillet."

"Ah," she said. "Congratulations. Your references checked out." She took a red plastic key-ring out of her pocket and handed it to him. He took it, glancing at the two keys on the ring. They looked identical.

"One's a spare," she offered. "You can move in straight away." She smiled briskly and shut the door in his face.

He blinked, and looked down at the keys again. That had been surprisingly easy. His grin returned, wider than ever, as he slowly turned around and made his way back to the street. He was practically skipping as he hopped onto a bus and made his way to his new home.

He was slightly less enthusiastic when he saw the neighbourhood, and completely disappointed (and a little afraid) when he saw the building. By the time he'd seen his room he was ready to turn around and spend another €70 on a ticket home. Even the children's home hadn't been this… this  _manky_. Half of the floor was linoleum, and every inch of that had been sticky. The other half was a snot-green carpet which, by some magical turn of fate, also managed to be sticky. The soles of his trainers squeaked and squelched as he made his way to the bed and put his bag down on it.

One metal bed-frame and a mattress, a few battered cupboards, a tiny fridge - no freezer - and an oven with two hobs. Nothing else. With a sigh, he sat down next to his bag and looked around, Master of his Cupboards and Oven. Well, he was in it now. This was all part of his grand plan. And if it didn't work out, he could leave at the end of the month and treat it like a delightful excursion into what was clearly some criminal gang's territory.

The next step was slightly harder. He had to get a job. In theory, any job would do, but his whole reason for running away was to become a reporter for one of the big European newspapers. Right now, it was unrealistic – he knew that without being told – but it wasn't unrealistic for a school drop-out to get a job as an office boy or errand boy. Even a receptionist or something. But to do that, he'd need to prove his age. It was time to get a fake passport.

He'd been given the name of someone that could get it for him. He'd called, spoken to someone about it, and agreed to hand over €300 for a new identity. Once he'd given the money over, that was it. He would be almost broke. He'd have enough for Pot Noodles and toilet paper, but only for about a week or so. He'd have to find a job quick or he'd starve to death. He wouldn't even have enough money to get a train home.

It took him a while to find the right place in Clichy-sous-Bois. If he had thought his own five storey building was bad, it was nothing compared to the squalid high–rises out there. He was directed to a basement nearby, where a young Asian man sat on a battered couch that leaked cheap foam stuffing. He'd given his name and handed over his money, and the young man had wordlessly produced a clear plastic baggie that held a brand new life.

He had a new passport, a French driving licence, a French birth certificate, and another identity card, a  _cart_ _nationale_ _d_ _'_ _identité_ _sécurisée_ , which was used all over France and was the most popular form of I.D. to carry, all in the name of Tintin.

His grin and his optimism returned as he made his way to the offices of  _The_ _Daily_ _Reporter_ , which was one of the biggest newspapers in Europe.  _Who_ _knows?_ he thought.  _Maybe_ _my_ _luck_ _will_ _hold_ _out!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

* * *

For the first couple of weeks, Tintin had been cautious. Too cautious, really. He'd managed to get a job with  _The_ _Daily_ _Reporter_ , and for three months the only time he stepped outside his front door was when it was time to go to work. For the rest of the time, he stayed inside eating Pot Noodles and writing nonsense, scrawling his way through a stack of A4 notebooks until his hand felt like it was terminally cramped and his little plastic bin was overflowing with spent biros.

Every noise in the night made him freeze, his mind imagining the Belgian police or the Christian Brother's from the children's home inching their way forward, tracking him down and preparing to drag him back kicking and screaming. But they didn't come, and eventually he forgot his fear and threw himself into his new life.

The only job he'd been able to get was down in the bowels of  _The_ _Reporter_ 's building. Every morning he rose early enough to catch the night bus, which brought him over to Commercial in time to punch in at four a.m. Then, he and the rest of the lads would load up the vans and trucks and start the deliveries. They drove all over Paris, dropping off stacks of newspapers at the airport, the supermarkets, newsagents and, finally, the street kiosks.

After his first day, he swore his arms were broken. By the end of that first week, he wished they just fall off and end his suffering. But by the third week he was happy with his job and beginning to make friends, and one friend was Todd, an English kid fresh from his first year of university, who had taken a gap-year so he could intern with a couple of different papers. His place with  _The_ _Reporter_  was finishing in six weeks, and then he was moving to the  _Paris_ _Flash_  offices across the street.

"Can you get me in?" Tintin had asked cautiously one day, over lunch in a local café. He was chancing his arm, he knew: there was no way an internship could fall into his lap so easily.

Todd had shrugged and pulled at his bottom lip thoughtfully. "No idea," he'd said at last. "Collette usually sorts the interns for the paper. I can ask her, if you'd like."

"Is there any real point?"

"That's a bit of a defeatist's attitude. What have I told you about that? You should be more positive. Look. I'll talk to her. It can't do any harm, can it?"

It hadn't done any harm. Two days later, Tintin was wearing his nicest brown cords and a matching brown sports coat, with a nice shirt and tie. He perched nervously on the edge of the chair and watched Collette. She was small and slim, but surprisingly formidable. She'd met him at the reception, greeting him briskly and giving him no chance to answer her rapid questions as she walked him through the bull-pen to her office at the back. On the way, she'd reduced one secretary to tears and upbraided one of the sports journalists. Now, she was staring critically at Tintin's passport.

"How old are you?" she asked.

"Er, eighteen," he lied.

She looked up at him and arched an eyebrow impressively. "How old are you?" she repeated.

His shoulders slumped and he sagged a little, deflated. "Sixteen," he lied again.

"Got any exams? No, didn't think so. Drop out?"

"Eh, yeah."

"How far'd you get? Did you at least finish high school?"

"Um, kind of." He'd rehearsed this: he was a bit rubbish at coming up with lies off the top of his head, so he'd carefully invented a story for himself. "I cracked before my final exams."

She nodded, and he was surprised to see a measure of sympathy in her quick, blue eyes. "My niece is taking exams this year. She's a basket case too. Look, I'll level with you: we don't want Todd to leave. But" – she paused and shrugged – "he wants to go to the  _Paris_ _Flash_  and then back to Cambridge. So, young Tintin, your internship starts now. Right now. Stick with Todd. Learn everything from him. I want you to be his shadow until he leaves. If you know more than him, and if you work harder than him, then maybe after three months we'll want you to stay too."

And so began his glamorous life as an intern. For a weekly pittance he worked nine to twelve hours a day, mainly fetching coffee and sandwiches. Occasionally, for an added thrill, he was allowed to fetch the cakes too. But he was a quick learner, and eager to learn, so he watched and he listened and with Todd's help he managed to make himself invaluable with the daily running of the office. Soon, he was the only one who knew the trick of getting the good colour printer to work. He was the person that knew where the spare pens were kept. When the internal server computer – the computer that linked every other computer to a vast, internal network – became temperamental, he was the one that knew how to fix it, or at least knew the phone number of the techie that had set it up.

By the end of his three months Collette had decided that firing him would inconvenience the office for at least a week, and for that reason alone he was hired full-time. He was a cub reporter for  _The_ _Daily_ _Reporter._

"Welcome aboard!" Christina (Arts and, regrettably for the men in the office, the weekend lesbian supplement) leaned over and slapped Tintin on the back as he tried to take a sip from his pint.

"Thanks, Chris," he said sarcastically as he mopped most of his mouthful up with a spare napkin. It was Friday night, and that day he'd been offered – and he'd accepted – his full-time position with the paper. Collette had smoked four cigarettes during their meeting, while she praised him and extolled his virtues and suggested a few classes he could take that would help his career.

"Scoops McGoo,  _Newsly_ _Times!_ " Jay (local soccer and rugby and, recently, the astrology pages for a bet) shoved the mouth of his bottle of Corrs under Tintin's nose. "How does it feel to be a small fish in a very large pond?"

"Well Scoops," Tintin said solemnly, playing along, "I'm not going to lie: it feels good. I'm so excited, I feel like I could fetch coffee professionally in the Olympics."

"Oh, settle down, Tiger!" Jay slipped his arm around Tintin's shoulders and gazed wistfully into the distance. "I can see it now, my friend: so many years ahead of you, getting my coffee…"

"Get bent!" Tintin shrugged his arm away with a grin and reached for his pint. "Can't wait for the next intern to show up," he added darkly. "I'm gonna make him my bitch."

They hooted with laughter at him.

"I hope it's a really hot girl and you fall in love." Christina tipped her cocktail at him teasingly.

"You've cursed him," Todd warned. "I have a crisp €10 note that says the next intern is a girl, and Tintin falls in love with her and ends up doing all her work."

"I'll take a bit of that action," Jay said. He pulled a €5 note and a jumble of change from his pocket and slapped in onto the table.

"Now you can  _both_  get bent," Tintin replied.


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

Monday morning saw Tintin sitting at his new desk in the bullpen. He had arrived early, like he always did, and force of habit made him check that every printer had paper and that the network computer was working properly. He was just going through his organizer (still mostly empty, but it was nice to input his few, relatively unimportant appointments into the schedule) when the others started to arrive. Soon, the bullpen filled up with laughter and chatter as the weekend was talked about and minor details analyzed.

"…no we didn't get that far. We were too drunk to walk straight so we ended up…"

"…and I noticed she had this little tan line on her ring finger, so I asked Tom…"

"…say's they're all the same, you know, and you can't really trust 'em…"

"…right up his nose. Honest to God! It just flew up there and…"

Christina dumped her handbag onto the floor beside her chair and kicked it roughly under her desk, before giving her swivel chair a vicious push. It rolled over to Tintin's desk and she threw herself into it, lolling wearily. "What a weekend," she said with a sigh. "You look busy. What are you up to?"

"Nothing." He added his last entry and grinned at her. "Just the usual rubbish."

"Yeah, welcome to  _The_ _Daily_ _Reporter,_  where everything is rubbish. Or barely working."

"Hey, home-boys." Jay appeared, dragging a chair behind him. "Is this our new meeting place? Cool, cool. Just texting Todd: he said to say good luck and that he hates you. Oh, and he's heading back to England soon. We should throw him a party or something."

"Here's Collette," Chris warned. "Quick! Look busy!"

As Collette hurried through the bullpen everyone pretended they were talking about work, or discussing recent news stories. "Tintin!" Collette called. He looked up and she crooked her finger at him, gesturing for him to follow her. He quickly got up and trotted obediently after her.

"Ooooh! You're in trouble!" Jay said. Christina picked it up, along with the rest of the bullpen, who joined in chanting; "Oooh! Fight! Fight! Fight!" By the time he'd reached Collette, who was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, she was smiling at his furious blushes.

"Ignore them," she said as she led him up. "You'll get a bit of hazing – everyone goes through it – but it's mostly harmless. They save their best pranks for me."

He already knew that: three weeks ago he and Jay had gift-wrapped every piece of stationary in her office, and before that Todd had led an impressive campaign to wall-paper her office with posters of David Hasselhoff.

She led him up to the second level, which was an open landing that ran around the entire building, with offices leading off at the back while the front opened onto the bullpen, so the superiors could look down at their busy workers. This was the floor every journalist with  _The_ _Reporter_  aspired to: secluded privacy in their own office, instead of the unremitting push of the bullpen.

Henri De Villars, the editor and boss of the paper, had his office here, along with the senior reporters and other important people, including Collette. To Tintin's surprise, however, Collette ignored her own office and led him to the back-right corner of the landing, to an office that was tucked away on its own. She paused with her hand on the door and took a deep breath before opening it.

The rank air hit Tintin first. It stank of stale sweat and vomit, and other bodily functions too disgusting to consider. The office was dark. The Venetian blinds had been snapped shut and the only light came from a small Anglepoise lamp on the cluttered desk. A man was sleeping at the desk, in an old black swivel chair that looked like it was held together by duct tape and the will of God. His head hung back, his snores rising softly into the murky gloom, while his arms dangled at his sides. His legs were stretched out under the desk and his shoes had been kicked off, revealing mismatched socks with holes in both heels.

Collette made her way to the man. When she reached him, she simply tipped the chair over and deposited him in an untidy heap on the floor. "Tintin, this is Jack Keller," she said. "Jack, this is Tintin."

"Jesus, woman, are you trying to kill me?" Jack managed to clamber to his feet where he stood, swaying and glaring balefully at Collette. "Who is this guy?" he added, jerking his head at Tintin.

Inside, Tintin's heart sank. Everyone knew Jack – he was a joke. Once, he had been a great journalist, rising to the top in his native America with  _The_ _Chicago_ _Tribune_ , but by the time he'd made his way to Europe he was burnt out: too many years in war-torn countries, and witnessing the atrocities performed on fellow human beings had stripped his soul. Now, he was a drunk: a wreck of a man that drank all day and hadn't written a good article in about five years.

"Jack, we talked about this," Collette said calmly. "This is the kid I was telling you about, remember?"

"No." Jack put his chair to rights and flopped back into it, running his hand through his thick, dishevelled brown hair. He had the beginning of a drunk's beard, and he scratched at the stubble idly.

Collette gritted her teeth. "This is happening, Jack," she said tiredly. "Shape up or ship out. This is your last chance." She turned back to Tintin. "Jack is going to be your mentor," she said. "Lucky you, huh? Do everything he says and learn what you can from him."

Tintin looked at her beseechingly. "Really?" he asked in a small voice.

"Really," she said firmly.

 _Oh_ _well,_  he thought. He took a deep breath (and regretted it instantly: the office was  _foul_ ) and steeled himself. "Fine," he said at last.

"Good for you." Collette patted him kindly on the arm. "I'll let you say your goodbyes down stairs – no doubt you'll want to fill your friends in when you get your stuff, and I'm sure they'll be dying to know why I brought you to Jack's pit. Finish up whatever you have to do down there, and after lunch relocate to this office. Jack…" She turned and looked at the man, who was trying to take a surreptitious gulp of a silver-coloured hip-flask. "For God's sake, man, go home and have a shower." Her nose wrinkled in disgust. "This has to stop: you can't sleep in here at weekends any more." She swept out of the room, leaving the door open behind her.

Tintin swallowed his first question ("You sleep in your office at weekends?") and forced a polite smile onto his face. "It'll be a pleasure to work with you, sir," he managed to say.

"No it won't," Jack replied morosely. "Now go away. I'm trying to write a piece about the riots."

Tintin watched as Jack used two fingers to tap away at his keyboard. "Uh, Mr Keller, sir? You're computer's not turned on."

"Oh." Jack stared at the screen for a second, before taking another gulp from his flask.

"And the riots happened three years ago." Shaking his head in dismay, Tintin left the office and went back to the bullpen for the last time.

xxx

"It's a test," Chris said. She was holding her pen like a cigarette while she squinted at Tintin. Their work had been abandoned for the morning as she and Jay clustered around Tintin's former desk.

"A test?" Tintin looked up. He had rested his head on the desk dejectedly, so he had to turn slightly to see her face.

"Gotta be," said Jay firmly. "She's done this before. Remember that photographer?"

"The woman?" Chris asked. "Yeah, she was great. Her work was amazing. She does a bit of work now with  _Italian_ _Vogue._  Did you see her spread for Tristan Bior last month?"

"Yeah, yeah, it luminescent," Jay said distractedly, waving his hand. "Do you remember when Collette put her up with Jack?"

"Oh, Christ, that was a mess."

"What happened?" Tintin asked worriedly.

"She lasted a week and quit in a flood of tears. He's a horrible pig," Chris said, her face pinched with distaste. "He told me a good shag would cure me from being gay."

"He's old school," Jay said with a shrug.

"He's a jingoistic chauvinist!"

Tintin groaned and banged his head on the desk. "What does he think of Belgians?"

"He says they're bumpkins," Jay replied. "But to be fair, so do I."

"Cheers, mate." Tintin raised his head as his phone buzzed. It was a message from Todd. He read it before relaying it's contents to the others. "He says it's a test. Definitely a test."

"Let's hope you pass," Chris said darkly. All three found their gaze dragged up to the office, and Tintin felt a shiver work its way down his back.

"Great," he murmured. "I'm a test subject."


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

After lunch, Tintin made his way back upstairs. As he, Christina and Jay hit the bullpen, he peeled away from the safety of the group, throwing a desperate glance back over his shoulder as he went. His friends looked so worried and sympathetic that he almost laughed out loud: it was like he was going to face a firing squad instead of a senior reporter. He took a deep breath when he reached the office and knocked before he went in.

Jack, mercifully, wasn't there. The stench, on the other hand, remained. He dropped his satchel onto the floor beside the desk and looked around. Thankfully, someone had cleaned up whatever Jack had left in the bin, but the place was still a complete tip. The filing cabinets were over-flowing with what turned out to be waste paper – mainly abandoned articles or plain printer paper covered with obscene doodles – and every old article and file that should have been kept safely was piled precariously on the cluttered desk. Hidden among the detritus were the remains of countless takeaways and Styrofoam coffee cups.

 _Right._ Tintin stood and surveyed the room. He simply couldn't work like this. He grabbed his wallet from his satchel, pausing only to open the blinds and throw the window open to the fresh air, and went out, his face set with determination. Ignoring the enquiring looks from his friends in the bullpen he left the building completely, returning about twenty minutes later with a roll of industrial-sized black bin bags. Taking the stairs two at a time, he quickly set about purging the office.

An hour and two bin bags later, Tintin had finally cleared the filing cabinets and had set about sorting through the old files. This was going to be tricky and time consuming: he needed to go through each file carefully in order to store it properly. Jack's system wasn't too different from what he was used to though: the completed article at the front and everything else shoved in at the back.

"Everything else" usually consisted of the names and addresses of various people and contacts used to source the information for the article; transcripts of lengthy interviews; information about the article's subject that might be relevant; and, in Jack's case, more doodles of boobs and cocks. Most of the information was probably out of date now, with most of the contacts either dead or moved on, but every so often Tintin would come across something that might be useful – names, phone numbers, people that could be bribed for a good piece of information, contacts that might still be useful…

The door opened and Tintin looked up from where he was sitting cross-legged on the floor, and nodded politely to Jack. The man looked cleaner, his clothes fresher, and his beard growth was gone. A single scrap of tissue paper clung forlornly to his jaw, covering a shaving nick.

"Who the hell are you?" Jack asked with a frown.

"Tintin," Tintin replied, confused. "We met this morning?"

Jack stared at him blankly.

"Collette introduced us? I'm supposed to be working with you?"

"Oh, for God's sake! Not this again!" Jack pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. "Why does that woman insist on doing this? Why? What the hell are you doing, anyway?"

"Cleaning up," Tintin said firmly. "This place is atrocious!"

"Relax, kid, you're not going to be here long enough to care." Jack threw himself into his chair heavily and put his feet up on the desk. Reclining slightly, he stared at Tintin, who had gone back to his own work. "So…  _Tintin._ That's a funny name. Is it your real name?"

"No," Tintin said idly as he took a note of a name and a phone number. "It's a pseudonym."

"What's your real name?"

"Does it matter?"

"I guess not. I just don't understand this European obsession with pseudonyms. Most reporters never achieve the level of fame a pseudonym is appropriate for. In America, the only people that use them are the people that could  _actually_  get killed for their work. So what does 'tintin' mean?"

"Nothing."

"You just made it up?"

"No, it means 'nothing'." Tintin kneeled up and dropped the completed file into the second lowest compartment of the filing cabinet and grabbed another one before settling back down. "It's Flemish slang for 'nothing'."

"Huh." Jack fell silent as he thought about it for a moment. "Cute. So you're a peasant?"

"I'm Belgian," Tintin corrected him.

"You ran away to the big city, huh? Ran off to the Big Smoke." Jack grinned at him. It was unpleasant, like the kind of smile a cat would give to a three-legged mouse. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"Bullshit! You look about twelve!"

Tintin took a deep breath. He had expected this. Actually, he'd expected worse: Jack was not an easy man to work with. In fact, he was notoriously difficult. He'd heard more stories about the man over the course of the morning and early afternoon, and none of them had been particularly complimentary.

According to most of the staff, Jack Keller was there simply because he had a well-known name. People had heard of him; had heard of the work he'd done in places like the Sudan, Cambodia, Juárez, and with the politically funded neo-nazi gangs in the former Eastern Bloc. His name still held weight, even if most of his newer stuff was sloppy and a bit shit.

But the strange thing was, Tintin was finding, that Jack's work actually  _wasn_ _'_ _t_  all that bad. It wasn't up to the paper's usual standard – not by a long shot – but that could be fixed with a bit of creative editing. Spelling and grammar had to be sorted out –  _seriously,_  had the man never heard of spell-check? – and some of the writing was clichéd and lazy, and a lot of it was just Jack pontificating and ranting against society, but the core ideas were good. Very good in some cases, so Tintin slogged on, answering Jack's increasingly irreverent and irrelevant questions while taking careful notes.

"Seriously, how old are you?"

"Eighteen. I already told you."

"You sound like you're chewing on a turnip. You gotta lose that accent, kid. C'mon, how old are you?"

"Eighteen!"

"Yeah, right! And I'm the Queen of Gaipajama! Where's your parents?"

"Dead."

"No shit! Really?"

"I hope so: otherwise burying them would have been a big mistake." Tintin looked up with a grin, letting Jack know it was a joke.

"Little orphan bumpkin. How'd they go?"

"I don't know: I never knew them."

"Hah! Your momma died before you were born, right? Pull the other one: it's got bells on."

"No, hand to God: I'm an orphan."

"You're yankin' me. Orphans don't exist no more."

"Well, I'm a genuine orphan. No family at all."

"Bullshit! You live in an orphanage?"

"Yep. We don't call 'em orphanages though. They're group homes now."

"Get out of here! State run?"

"Yep."

"Catholic Church?"

"Oh yes." Tintin suppressed a shudder, which Jack noticed.

"O-ho! You get touched up?"

Tintin looked up quickly, shocked at the nature of the question and its brutal delivery. "What? No! I… No, of course not!"

"Liar!" Jack's eyes flashed wickedly. He looked as though he was thoroughly enjoying himself. "What happened?"

"Nothing."

"C'mon! Did some priest touch your vestibules?"

"What? No!"

"Did he take you to heaven and back?"

"Oh my  _God!_ "

"Did he consecrate your host? Iron your vestments? You can tell me, kid: did he make you kneel in benediction?"

Tintin felt awful for laughing, but he just couldn't help himself. It seemed so sublimely ridiculous: men of God raping and torturing children in state-run institutions, but it was happening, and it was a global phenomenon. And God's 'chosen representatives on earth', the various popes, were simply sweeping it under the carpet and hoping it would go away. He shook his head and went back to work.

"Do you believe in God?" Jack asked suddenly.

Tintin frowned, but didn't look up. "I guess," he said absently.

"Are you still a Catholic?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I don't really think about it. Does it matter?"

"No. I just think it's amusing that people still believe in God."

"It's a personal choice," Tintin said, looking up sharply.

"Yeah. I guess." Jack leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. "Y'know, I once saw the body of an eight year old girl. She'd been raped to death. Honest to God: raped to death. She'd been tortured pretty badly too, before she finally died. They'd poured boiling water in her eyes."

Tintin stared at him, aghast. He was, he realised, completely speechless. He couldn't even begin to comprehend what that little girl had gone through. Great snakes, he couldn't even comprehend what Jack had gone through, and he'd only seen the body.

"That's not the worst thing I've seen, though," Jack continued thoughtfully. "That doesn't make the top five. Top ten, maybe, but there's worse out there. That's what you're getting into, kid." He swung his legs down from the desk and leaned forward, towards Tintin, his elbows resting on his knees.

"It's all well and good here, in Paris. You got your fashion, your easy politics, your culture… It's all very civilized. But it's a fuckin' lie, kid: the whole goddamn lot of it. It's all built on the back of slavery, and if you don't believe slavery exists in this day and age, you're a goddamn fool. You dig through almost any aspect of our civilized life and you'll find a corporation shitting on people from a great height. Those are the stories we need to tell, kid; to bring a voice to those that can't speak out.

"But people don't care. They really fuckin' don't." Jack shook his head in wonder. "Why the fuck would they care about sweat-shops and the children forced to work in them, during fashion week? Why would they care where their old cell phones and computers are dumped, when they can buy a brand new, cut-price android made by a slave in China? Who cares which landfill the toxic waste is dumped in to, as long as it's far from this civilized place?

"They don't thank you for these stories, Tintin, because it makes 'em look like assholes. Oh, sure, they'll give you a pat on the back and a plastic statue painted gold, but next week there'll be more news, and the stuff that really matters – the destruction of the world, genocide, war, murder, rape, abuse – gets washed away in a wave of mediocre bullshit. And God help us if Lindsay Lohan fucks up again: that mess won't shift from the front pages for weeks, pushing the real news back so it doesn't upset people.

"And that's how they want it, kid. They distract us with meaningless bullshit, so while we stare at the shiny thing in their right hand, they fuck us over with their left hand. What was in the papers this morning?"

"Um, Amy Winehouse? Her driver hit a photographer with his car, apparently," Tintin said with a shrug.

"Yeah? A typhoon hit China this morning. People are dying over there. Typhoon Hagupit. Did that make the papers?"

Tintin shook his head slowly. "I don't remember reading it."

"Because Amy Winehouse's friggin' driver is more important. Does that seem fair to you? Does that seem like  _real_  news to you?"

"No," Tintin said quietly. "No, I think a natural disaster hitting a heavily over-populated country would be slightly more important."

" _That_ _'_ _s_  what you're up against, kid.  _That_ _'_ _s_  what you're facing: people who just don't give a good goddamn about what's happening in the real world. I hope you're up to it, Tintin, I hope to God you're able for it. 'Cause if you're not, it's going to swallow you up and spit you back out, and every time you see a story about Amy Winehouse or Tom Cruise acting nutty, while people are dying all over the world in pointless conflicts, gang wars and natural disasters, it's going to kill you a little inside. Right!" He slapped his hands against his legs loudly, and Tintin jumped at the sudden noise. "I'm going for a nap. Wake me up when it's time to go home."

Tintin watched, slightly shell-shocked, as Jack put his feet back up on the desk and settled in for a snooze. Within seconds his chin was resting against his chest and realistic-sounding snores floated up in to the heavy silence of the office. Shaking himself mentally, Tintin remembered the file in his hands and went back to it. As he opened it, a black and white photograph slipped out of the mess of papers and fluttered delicately to the carpet. With a hiss of frustration, Tintin snatched it up, intended to push it back into the file.

He paused, and studied it carefully. A small boy lay in the middle of an anonymous road – it could be anywhere, from America to Paris or London – a pool of blood forming around his tiny body. Numbered plastic markers stood around the corpse, counting the bullets that had taken his young life. He wasn't more than ten years old, Tintin guessed, and that was probably being generous. His small face was tilted towards the camera, frozen in a mask of fear; the victim of a gang war he would never understand.

The article itself was marked: "Unpublished: bumped for better story about Tom Cruise."


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

October rolled around, ending the heatwave that had covered the city during September, squatting over them like a suffocating bird of prey, and at last the city began to cool down. The random pockets of violence that had seemed to flare up with the worst of the heat died away as the city's gangs got back to the business of thuggery. Sitting in the small café opposite an old, abandoned hotel, Tintin kept one eye on the time and another on the street. About half and hour ago a crummy, beat up, blue Opel had pulled up and his contact, T-Bag, had entered the old hotel. Now, all Tintin had to do was wait.

Things had been going great at work. Jack was still a lazy drunk, so Tintin had been pretty much able to do whatever he wanted with the column. He'd written a few political pieces, changing his own writing style to incorporate Jack's wry sense of humour and self-importance. It had been difficult at first – their styles had been so different, with Tintin preferring a more emotive, descriptive style that looked to childish and sentimental next to Jack's – but he'd finally hit a happy medium, and the  _Letters To The Editor_  segment was beginning to print a few tentative messages of support for 'Jack Keller' and his opinions.

Happily, Jack had no idea what was going on. Every so often he'd hand Tintin a badly-spelled article – usually a meandering rant filled with random trains of thought – which Tintin would happily accept with a smile and a nod and immediately disregard. He would pretend to type up Jack's articles while working on real articles, and because Jack didn't read  _The_ _Reporter_  (" _The_ _Reporter_ _'_ _s_ _for_ _chumps,_ _kid:_ _it_ _'_ _s_ _sensationalist_ _crap_ _two_ _steps_ _away_ _from_ _a_ _tabloid_ _rag!_ _"_ ) he'd been able to get away with it for almost a month now.

He checked the time again: 11:30pm. There was still no movement from the hotel. He wasn't worried though: one thing Jack always said was Don't Panic. Granted, then he usually added some clap-trap about always having a towel on your person, but Tintin didn't know whether or not this was a reference to a book he'd never read, or if Jack was making a racist joke about the people he referred to as 'towel-heads', so he usually ignored that part.

11:35. He took a sip of his coffee and continued waiting. T-Bag had been clear: wait until he and his two boys were clear before calling the police. During the summer, the cops – working with Interpol – had raided a house in one of the poorer Parisian suburbs and came away with one of the largest hauls of the last five years. The city's drug trade then ground to a halt as the drugs were seized by the cops. This, combined with the heat and natural hate that the various gangs had for one another and society in general, was part of the reason the gangs had been so violent over the last few months.

Their main source of income came from dealing drugs, and with no drugs to deal they'd had to find other ways to make money: muggings, breaking and entering, stealing cars, pick-pocketing, prostitution… There'd been a sharp rise in gun and knife crime too, with people getting shot or stabbed as the nervous criminals – most of them still in their teenage years – got spooked and starting shooting if a plan went even slightly awry. And, naturally, there some that just liked to kill, and would do so at even the smallest provocation.

T-Bag was sick of it. T-Bag was, in fact, Tintin's own contact: one he'd found by himself, without the aid of Jack's notes. T-Bag was the same young Asian man Tintin had bought his fake papers from when he'd first arrived in Paris. They'd kept in touch almost accidentally: when Tintin had gotten his first job in  _The_ _Reporter_ 's printing rooms he'd texted T-Bag to thank him for his help. They'd been texting back and forth since then, and Tintin had found that T-Bag was actually articulate, intelligent, and quite a decent guy.

His parents were Chinese immigrants, and they both worked all day and night to try and make a better life in France for their children, but T-Bag had seen them face racism, abuse, random violence from young thugs, and discrimination from official thugs. The turning point had been when T-Bag's older brother – a student that had worked two jobs to pay for college – had been attacked late one night by a group of drunken idiots, and kicked to death. Nobody had ever been prosecuted for the crime, but it was common knowledge among college students in one particular school who had done it.

T-Bag had begun to drift then, getting deeper into trouble as he detached himself from the society that hated and scorned him. He got in with a gang in Clichy-sous-Bois and found a new society that accepted him fully, and with open arms. In return, his bourgeoning business acumen, savvy street-smarts and calming influence had turned the gang from a disorganized bunch of louts into a group that was run with almost militant efficiency, that were expanding into the black market and finally starting to make some real money.

The drug bust had inconvenienced T-Bag. Usually, his boys got to stay in abandoned flats and warehouses, and people came to them for stuff like their party drugs, E and weed, to the stronger stuff like coke and heroin. Once the drugs were seized by the police, T-Bag watched the gang almost disintegrate around him as his vicious second-in-command, a Germanic maniac called Herr Drier (Dizzy to his friends), had started a side-line in B&E, which had grown steadily more violent as Dizzy drew further and further away from T-Bag's influence.

This had culminated in a night of heady violence two weeks ago, when an elderly couple had been beaten to death in their flat when they interrupted a break-in. The next night, frustrated by the lack of action and seeming incompetence of the police, a peaceful protest that was taking place outside the police headquarters descended into all-out war, as the street gangs took to the streets and declared war on one another. In the immediate aftermath, T-Bag's gang fractured when the rumours broke out that Dizzy and a few of his closest homies were the ones who had killed the elderly couple – rumours that Dizzy encouraged because they were true – and the gang members began to chose sides, claiming loyalty to either T-Bag or Dizzy.

This new conflict brought a series of vicious, escalating attacks on each other that had so far left three people in the hospital, five in jail, and one in the morgue, and it had only been going on for fourteen days.

It was T-Bag that had suggested it: a sit-down peace talk between the two rivals in a neutral place. They'd stop the escalating reprisals, settle whatever bad-blood was between them, and work out territory so that the two factions could co-exist relatively trouble-free. Or so Dizzy thought.

T-Bag was under no illusions: Dizzy was devious. He would agree to this with a warm smile and get T-Bag as soon as the dust had settled. In fact, had T-Bag not insisted that their meeting be small – each of them could only bring two other people – Dizzy probably would have struck right then, getting T-Bag as soon as his shitty little Opel had pulled up outside the old hotel. Tintin had seen the gang's arsenal. It wasn't as expansive as some of the other gangs', but it was pretty impressive and contained a number of pistols and two or three machine guns, as well as a stack of knives and meat cleavers. If Dizzy wanted T-Bag dead, he would have found a way to make it happen.

Unless, of course, he was out of the picture, which was where Tintin came in. His source, T-Bag, would be allowed to leave unmolested, but as soon as he was in his car Tintin was calling the cops. Earlier today, he and T-Bag had hidden a small – but significant – stash of weapons in the hotel, along with the shirt Dizzy had been wearing when he'd stabbed the elderly couple to death. T-Bag would leave, the police would arrive, and Dizzy would be sent down for a long time. T-Bag would regain full control of the gang and Tintin – who 'luckily' was there for the whole thing – would get a great story. He'd already photographed the weapons and the bloody shirt, because he knew the police would never give him access to them once they were on the scene, and the bones of the article were already written. Now all he needed were the details.

11.45pm, and there was movement at the hotel. Tintin grabbed his camera and hooked the long handle of his satchel around his neck. He quickly dialled the number for the gang task-force and paused, waiting for T-Bag to get out of there. His stomach bounced nervously. A young black youth, who looked younger than sixteen for sure, opened the door and peered around. When he was certain that there were no police hiding in the shadows of the ill-lit parking bay, he gestured inside and his fellows emerged. As T-Bag strolled to the crappy Opel his eyes locked with Tintin's. They stared at each other for a few seconds, their faces carefully blank, and then T-Bag was in the passenger seat of the car. The black youth got into the driver's seat and the third boy, a gangling Asian youth that looked ridiculously young, jumped into the back. As soon as the final door had slammed shut, Tintin pressed the Call button on his phone.

"The man who killed Monsieur et Madame Fournier is in the old Hôtel Magnifique building," he said in a low voice the second the phone was answered. "I advise you to move fast." He hung up and stood up, leaving the money for his coffee on the table. Slipping his phone into his pocket, he left the café. Once outside, he adjusted his bag so that his hands were free for the camera. He'd already chosen his spot: there were two parked cars a bit further down that he could crouch behind, getting cover in case anything went wrong, but still with a clear enough view of the action.

Dizzy had come to the meeting in an up-market BMW that still bore a smashed window as evidence of his stealing it. Tintin made sure to get a few shots of that, including the number plate. The number plate wasn't particularly important or newsworthy, and the police would be able to contact the owner in seconds compared to how long it would take him to trace it back to them, but in a few weeks – long after interest in this story had disappeared – when Dizzy's court case began, Tintin could trace the owners himself and do a 'human interest' story or something.  _A_ _Murderer_ _Stole_ _My_ _Car_ , maybe. It would be a very lazy, but quite interesting, filler piece he could use to pad something out with. Not exactly a Pulitzer prize-winning piece of work, but would be easy.

Great snakes, he was even beginning to  _think_  like Jack now. He was spending  _way_  too much time around him.

There was more movement at the hotel as a young face appeared at the glass panel beside the door and checked the street for trouble. Tintin swung the camera away from the stolen car and started snapping. Dizzy himself came out first, testing the air like a rat. He was half-way across the parking bay – half-way to the BMW – when a black saloon car screeched around the corner, high beams flooding the dark road. Dizzy stood, frozen in the bright lights (it made a great picture, and Tintin was planning on having it blown up, framed, and presented to T-Bag for Christmas) before his legs awoke and he started to run.

A second car followed the first, effectively blocking that way off, so Dizzy turned and started to run towards the other end of the street, abandoning the stolen BMW in the hope that he could find a crowd to blend in with quickly. Two cruisers then appeared from nowhere and turned on their sirens. They skidded in, boxing him into their trap. As soon as the police were out of their cars Tintin stood up and continued snapping. It didn't matter if he was noticed now: Dizzy and his homeboys suddenly had a whole lot else to worry about now.

They went easily, in the end. They still didn't know they'd been set up. They obviously hadn't checked over the hotel before the meeting or they might have found the stash. As far as they knew, they were in the clear: guilty of nothing more than breaking into a beat-up, empty old building. They were handcuffed and put in the cruisers, and Tintin got a few good shots of that, with each boy wearing a smug, nasty little grin that would swing public favour against them when published next to a headline that read  _Smiling_ _Granny_ _Killers_  (Jack's influence again? Good grief!)

After that, he had a small set-to with one idiot cop that kept insisting Tintin 'move along', but after a few minutes of waving his credentials under the man's nose – and after slipping him a €50 note – the cop got the message and let Tintin get back to work. He even managed to get a great shot of the two Interpol officers falling arse-over-tit as they tried to enter the building together.

Over the next hour more and more cars showed up. Most were police cars and forensics experts once the evidence was found, but the press were there too, and the streets filled out with gawkers and hangers-on observing new gossip with interest. Tintin made his way over to a small crowd of photographers that were hanging around underneath a street light.

"Ah, the Man with No Name," said Todd when he spotted Tintin. "Get anything good?"

Tintin shrugged. "Same as everyone else, I guess."

"Liar. Where were you when this started?"

"Drinking coffee. What are you doing here anyway?" The  _Paris-Flash_  wasn't exactly known for gritty – or accurate – content.

"Hm. This all ties in to the theme of  _Urban_ _Decay_ , apparently," Todd said, rolling his eyes. "Plus, I was the only person with access to a camera that had their phone switched on, so here I am. What's the story here?"

"I don't know," Tintin lied. "It must be something important though, if Interpol are here. Maybe something to do with drugs?" He felt a bit bad for lying about it, but Todd would understand.

"Interpol?" Todd raised his eyebrows, impressed at the news, and the gossip quickly spread back through the other photographers.

"That's their car, isn't it?" Tintin asked, pointing towards the black saloon.

"Was it those two tits with the stupid bowler hats?" someone asked.

"Do they also fall over a lot? If so: yes! Ah, here they come."

The knot of photographers turned around as one as the hotel door opened again and the two Interpol officers reappeared, their arms filled with evidence bags. For a long while the loudest sound were the clicks and whirrs of the cameras as they charted the detectives' journey to their car. With enough evidence to at least bring the gang-bangers in, the two cruisers turned on their sirens and drove away, the black saloon following them closely.

"Well, that's all, folks." Tintin stowed his camera back into his bag and tipped a salute to the others. They would have a thankless job, now; writing the article from scratch and pestering the police for information until they found someone that could be bribed. He alone would be early to bed, knowing that the afternoon edition of  _The_ _Reporter_  would still be running with the most complete story.

It was a good day's work.


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

 

At first, Tintin had enjoyed his photography classes. He went every Thursday night in a near-by evening school, but he quickly found that he could learn more about composition, angles, subjects and light simply by observing the photographers that surrounded him. Todd and Jay, in particular, had a keen interest in photography. It was Jay's skill in capturing action shots that had gotten him bumped from serious news to sports, where a quick finger and a keen eye was worth more. Todd, on the other hand, had accepted the internship at  _Paris_ _Flash_  to develop his own skills, as the fashionable magazine was noted for its artistic photo-stories.

It was a few days before Halloween and the three of them – Tintin, Todd and Jay – had spent their Saturday off touring the city and taking photographs. They did it quite a lot, the three of them: out all over Paris taking shots of the buildings, comparing architectural styles and various periods. They toured the parks and zoos or just stayed in the centre of the city taking candid shots of people and crowds. Usually, it was a lot of fun, but today it had been tense.

For some reason, Jay had been acting oddly. He hadn't been his usual chipper self since Tintin had met them that morning outside a small café on the banks of the Seine. At first, Tintin had just assumed it was the early morning start and the bitter cold that was the problem, but by the time they'd stopped for lunch in Subway it was clear that Tintin himself was the problem. Oh, sure: there had been a few snide remarks all morning but that was normal for Jay, even if his comments were slightly more barbed than usual. But he seemed to have no problem with Todd: together they were laughing and chatting and cracking jokes, but any time Tintin opened his mouth to say something, Jay would roll his eyes or sigh loudly, or look pointedly at his watch.

Seven pm found them in the pub, their cameras tucked safely away for the rest of the night. Both Tintin and Todd had stuck to pints, and were both on their first drink of the night, savouring the taste as they savoured the friendly atmosphere of the little pub. Jay had already finished two bottles of Coors, both gulped down quickly with whisky chasers, and had switched to vodka and ice. At the moment, he was trying to convince Todd to have a few rounds of tequila.

"Not for me, mate," Todd said with a yawn. "I'm bushed. If I drink any tequila I'll just fall asleep."

"Aww! C'mon! Live a little!"

"Nah, I'm good."

Jay rolled his eyes and hit the bar alone. As soon as he was gone, Tintin cleared his throat. "Is he ok?" he asked hesitantly.

Todd shrugged. "I dunno."

"He's a bit more… aggressive or something, no?"

"Yeah, I noticed that too. Did you two fall out or something?"

"Not that I know of." Tintin chewed at his lip as he thought about it. As far as he knew, Jay had been fine all week. Granted, Tintin had been so busy recently that he didn't have much time to talk at work, but every time they'd seen each other, both Tintin and Jay had taken the time to acknowledge each other, even if it was just a quick "Hello!" or a friendly nod and a wave, usually when Tintin was rushing through the bullpen either on his way to his office or out for a meeting.

He  _had_  been very busy though, so maybe he had missed something. T-Bag had put him in contact with another gang: a group of young girls that were almost as bad as the boys, if not worse. He'd sat there, in some nondescript derelict flat, with a grin frozen onto his face for so long it felt like a grimace, listening to the girls laughing and telling stories of their exploits. Their capacity for random, casual violence really scared him. And some of the stories were just disturbing. They'd talked of seeing some random girl standing at the bus stop who'd they'd attacked for the sake of a nice-looking hand-bag; or of being out in pubs, drinking, and starting fights over the stupidest infractions, and stabbing the target of their anger; of seeing a good-lucking, confident girl in a nightclub and beating her half to death to 'take her down a peg or two'.

But if the casual violence was compelling, and their flippant attitude towards their victims disgusting, it was their personal stories that were heartbreaking. They were products of their environments, children of single mothers that worked so many jobs they couldn't take care of their children because they simply weren't  _there_. Some had fathers that beat them – or worse – and all came from families that were on nodding terms with absolute poverty. The series of articles he had been running all week had sparked fierce debate in the letters' page.

Some blamed society and were calling for an overhaul of the Department of Child Welfare; others blamed the parents and demanded that the gang members be locked up, that 'Jack Keller' should name and shame the girls instead of letting them hide behind blurred photos and fake names; others criticized the ridiculously lenient sentences handed out to the girls when they had been caught – none of them had ever seen the inside of a correctional facility and if they didn't turn up for community service nobody gave a damn, and being 'on tag' was like a holiday to them. It was a chance to stay inside, in the warmth and with their families. It let them quit whatever drugs they were taking, and dry out from the cheap cider they drank on the streets. It was treated almost like a spa weekend.

So in all honesty, Jay  _could_  have been annoyed about something, but Tintin simply hadn't had any time to notice. He ran his hand through his hair – it needed to be cut, and badly – and shrugged. "Is it possible for two people to fall out, and for one of them to not notice?"

"Anything's possible with Jay. Oh Lordy." Todd shook his head and sighed. "He's just put two more shots down his throat."

They watched as Jay, still at the bar, emptied two shots of tequila to a round of applause from the other bar-flies. Grinning like a Cheshire cat, he staggered back over to them holding a Jägerbomb and a double vodka and ice.

"All right, bellends?" he said as he plopped into his seat. As he rearranged his legs he kicked the table, knocking his two empty bottles over. "Service here is crap," he said as he picked them back up. "Certainly not  _exceptional_."

"Oh God, not this again," Todd said with a groan.

Tintin looked from one to the other, clearly missing something. "What?"

Jay pointed an empty bottle at him. "Go on: how'd you do it?"

"Do what?" Tintin asked, confused.

"Get the job. Go on: did you fuck Collette or something?"

"What? No!"

"Are you sucking Jack's cock then?"

"No! Jay! What are you saying to me?"

"Exceptional!" Jack snapped. He slammed the bottle back on to the table. "That's what she said."

"Who said what?" Tintin looked at Todd, who rolled his eyes again and shook his head.

"I should be up with Jack," Jay hissed. He leaned forward, stabbing his finger in Tintin's direction to emphasise his point. "I'm older than you. I worked here longer than you. I put in the hard graft and what do I get? Sod all! I got took off real news and shoved to the back pages. Sport? Bah! I don't even like rugby!"

Tintin shrugged helplessly. "I don't know what your point is, mate."

"I'm not your fucking mate!" Jay shouted. Around them, the conversation dipped a little and the bar man looked over, worried. "You don't deserve that job! You've only been here five sodding minutes and already you get an office?"

"An office that smelt like vomit and poo!"

"And you get to hang out with Jack."

"Yeah, and  _he_  smells like vomit and poo!"

"He must be doing  _something_  right: look at how much he's taught you already! Tintin, on Wednesday  _your_  articles were picked up by the leader of the opposition! They're using  _your_  articles to discredit Sarkozy and his government!"

"So?" Tintin snapped, suddenly annoyed and a little embarrassed. He hadn't realised it would go that far, and he didn't want it to go any further: anyone digging into Jack's new-found  _joie_ _de_ _vivre_  would quickly discover what was really going on, leading to some awkward questions that Tintin didn't want to answer, such as  _Who_ _are_ _you?_ _Where_ _are_ _you_ _from?_ _How_ _old_ _are_ _you?_

Questions like that would be  _very_ dangerous.

As it was, they'd been concentrating more on the content than the author, which was strange considering Jack's notoriety, but that meant that all the credit was still going to Jack, not Tintin. So what did it matter to Jay how far the articles were going, anyway? Its not like Tintin was reaping any of the benefits.

"How is this my fault?" he demanded, his temper rising. "Like you just said:  _you_  worked here longer. Three years now, yes? So how is it my fault that not once during those three years did you bother getting up off your lazy butt and going to talk to Jack? How is it my fault that you don't have the initiative to go out and find stories? Every day you're home by six-thirty, yes? I'm out until the small hours of the morning, working hard and talking to people and finding stories. It's not easy, and it's not pleasant, but I still do it. Am I to blame for your laziness? For your complacency?

"You want to know why you're stuck in sports? Because you're not a good writer. That's why. Is that my fault? I don't think so! I'm not stopping you from going to take a class, am I? In fact, I've been trying to push you into doing that. I take the time to  _practice_  my writing in my spare time. That's all I do:  _practice,_ _practice,_ _practice;_  over and over until my style develops and improves, until my English and German become as perfect as my Dutch, Flemish and French. You don't even read, Jay; the easiest way to better yourself and you're too lazy to do it! Well, to hell with you: I'm not going to apologize for working hard and doing my damned job to the best of my ability. You don't like writing for sports? Then nut up and do something about it. Stop blaming others for your own shortcomings."

"You snotty little arsehole!" Jay stood up and flipped the table over. The bottles and Tintin's pint went flying. "I should hit you for that!"

In a second, Tintin was on his feet and they stood, nose to nose, ignoring Todd's pleas for calm.

"Then do it," Tintin snapped, "or stop complaining!" He wasn't scared. He'd never backed down from a fight in his life. He didn't  _like_  to fight, and he certainly didn't want to fight with Jay, but growing up in an orphanage he'd learned how to stand his ground with his fists. He'd had to: nobody else was ever going to stand up for him in there, and some of the bullying that had gone on inside the home had been brutal. It was either fight your own corner or end up taking your life in the janitor's closet, and of the two options Tintin had always preferred the first.

"Right! That's it!" The bouncer waded through the debris of shattered glass and spilt drinks and grabbed Jay by the scruff of his neck. "You're out of order, sonny. Take it outside."

Tintin looked at Todd, who was refusing to look at Jay. "Sit down," Todd hissed, and Tintin quickly sat back down and together they set the table to rights. "They'll leave you alone because Jay's drunk. Just shut up and stay quiet."

"You bastard, Todd!" Jay was howling as the bouncer hauled him away. "You  _pair_  of bastards! You could have backed me up!"

"He'll be fine in the morning," Todd said uncertainly, when Jay was gone. "You'll see: everything will be grand."

"I don't care," Tintin said abruptly. "Can we go somewhere else? People are staring."

"Yeah, let's get out of here." Todd finished his drink and stood up. "Come on, I know a good place. You'll love it."


	7. Chapter 7

**Seven**

At three am they were sauntering along the street, crossing back over the bridge as they made their way home. They'd ended up in a rock club, moshing with a group of goths Tintin had started a conversation with in the chip shop. His mouth was dangerous when he was tipsy: he was completely fearless at the best of times, and would approach anyone over any little thing that took his fancy. Tonight, one of the Goths – Jorge – had pulled out a nifty phone and Tintin had wandered over to complain that he had gone to buy the same one but they'd only had it in blue, which looked naff in his opinion.

That, naturally, had lead to everyone whipping out their phones and comparing apps and camera quality, which in turn had led to Tintin whipping out his professional camera to take a few snaps of the Goths – most had been posed but he was sure he'd gotten a few good candid shots – before swearing undying friendship to one another over their curry chips and heading on to a club for a drink to seal their oaths.

"Y'see," Tintin was saying as they walked. He wasn't drunk, per say, but he was a fair trot away from sober. As it was, they were leaning against one another, supporting each other as they did that peculiar drunk-walk over the bridge: a sort of stagger that had become more pronounced the more they'd concentrated on walking normally.

"Y'see, the thing with Jack is… is… is that he  _does_  actually say stuff that's int'resting. Eventually. And even then a lot of what he says is guff."

"Guff? What a great word. We should bring back old English slang words."

"Yeah, a revivalilsm. Revivalist? Revolution? Oh, I dunno. What was I saying?"

"Revival?"

"Sure. Why not? What are we revivaling?"

"Wait, weren't we talking about Jack?"

"Oh, yeah. Ok. So, one thing that Jack has taught me is this:  _never_ _give_ _the_ _people_ _what_ _they_ _want._ "

Todd stopped walking, diverting the brain-energy needed to keeping his feet moving to puzzle out Tintin's last statement. "Wait," he said slowly. "Shouldn't that be:  _always_ _give_ _the_ _people_ _what_ _they_ _want?_ _"_

"No, you  _never_  give them what they want: you show them what they  _need._ Like, say for example…" Tintin screwed up his face as he thought about a pertinent example. "Right, got it: say that Sarkozy announces a new tax that only affects people with annual incomes below €100,000."

"Like Ireland, and Greece," Todd interrupted.

"Right. And look at Greece: they're rioting over it."

"Not like Ireland: they just bend over and take it."

"Right. So say it happens here, and on the same day Sarkozy announces it, photographs of Carla Bruni with her tits-out surface. What do the people want? Photos of Carla Brunei's tits, or news that will affect the majority of France's population in an unfair way, while minority wealthy keep their cash?"

Todd thought about it for a split second. "To be honest, mate," he said sheepishly, "I'd take a nice set of boobs over Sarkozy's face any day."

"Exactly!" Tintin stabbed the air for emphasis. "Men want to see her boobs and women want to complain about her boobs!"

"If she let me have a go on them, I'd settle it for once and for all whether they're fake or not."

"Back of the line, pal. What was I saying?"

"Carla Bruni's boobs. Give the people what they want!"

"No, give the people what they  _need._ " Tintin shook his head, certain there was a real point hidden in here somewhere. He just needed to find it again. "I'll let you and Jay print the pictures of the boobs – what do I care? I can see them in any paper or on the internet after that – but I'll give the people the meat of the matter, and write about Sarkozy. And while everyone else is so focused on the boobs, I've got the real story, and I'm one step ahead. Get it?"

"Huh." Jay thought about this again. "But if the people want boobs, what's wrong with giving it to them?"

"Nothing, but boobs won't get you a serious article. Jack says there's two types of writers: journalists and reporters. Journalists are lazy, and give the people what they want, while reporters go out and find the  _real_  stories, the stories that matter, and give the people what they  _need._  Journalists can be replaced in a heartbeat – all they do is regurgitate other people's real news a day later, or speculate about celebrities they've never met – while reporters make a reputation for themselves and become house-hold names. Who does the gossip column for  _The_ _Reporter?_ _"_

"Eeeehh… I don't know. I can't remember his name."

"Who writes about gangs and politics?"

"Jack. Well,  _you_ , but Jack. Sort of. Everyone in  _Paris_ _Flash_  is banging on about Jack anyway."

"The whole city is talking about Jack," Tintin said with a shrug.

"The whole city wants to know how he caught that killer," Todd said. "In particular, this part of the city standing right beside you. How did you do it?"

Tintin shrugged again. "I didn't do anything: my source set it all up."

"Who's your source?"

"Aaaah!" Tintin grinned and waved his finger in the air. "A good reporter never reveals his sources!"

They were about half-way over the bridge now. "That's a load of – oooooh!" Todd stopped abruptly, having made the mistake of looking down into the river and instantly regretting it. The more he stared, the more it looked like the bridge was moving and the water was staying still, and he was starting to feel a bit sea-sick. His stomach lurched alarmingly, so he stumbled over to the side and bent over the railing, gasping feebly.

"You ok?" Tintin asked, his voice unconcerned. He leaned beside Todd, moving far enough away to avoid flying chunks of beer-soaked curry chips. He didn't feel sick at all. It was one of those nights: even after a bad start everything else had clicked into place, and he couldn't help but feel strangely optimistic.

The night was bitterly cold. He could see ice on the top of the river – small patches so far, but they were still there – and the parked cars were white with frost, but at least there was no wind or rain. The cold hadn't deterred anyone though: there were still cars on the road – Paris never truly slept the way other cities sleep – and on the other side of the bridge, towards the city centre, they could see crowds of people milling about as they queued for taxis or started walking home slowly in large groups. In some parts of the city, he knew, certain clubs were only opening now: 'gentlemen's' clubs where the gambolling went on all night and women – even children, in some places – were always on hand for the right amount of money.

Comparing it to the side they were coming from, which looked abandoned; desolately dark with just one man walking near the edge of the river…

Tintin lost his train of thought as he concentrated on the man. He was carrying something. Tintin frowned and squinted at the man. Whatever he was carrying – a sack, perhaps? – was moving. The man neared the wall. He looked around casually, not spotting either Tintin or Todd, before dumping the wiggling sack in to the river.

 _Anything can be a story._

"Hey!" Tintin shouted, startling Todd who hiccupped with surprise. The man looked over, spooked, and finally saw the two lads. He turned on his heel and ran, while Tintin raced back off the bridge. Once he reached the street, a quick glance showed that the man was gone, lost to one of the many side-streets. Kicking off his shoes as he ran and shrugging his heavy jacket off, Tintin scrambled over the wall and dove into the river, narrowly missing a jagged sliver of thin ice.

Then he was under, freezing water crushing his chest and pounding in his ears painfully. It felt like his head was going to burst, like his whole body had been placed in a vice and someone was turning the handle quickly. This was, probably, a Bad Idea. He'd look back on this and say; "Yes, definitely a Bad Idea."

He kicked himself forward and blindly grabbed out. At first, his fingers brushed against something slimy that  _moved_ , but after a few tries they closed around the rough, sodden fabric of a sack. He turned himself around and started to swim upwards, hopefully. For a long, horrible second he thought he'd misjudged it; that he was disorientated and still swimming downwards. His lungs ached and he could feel his body attempting to  _breathe_. He fought the feeling, knowing that he was only seconds away from drowning…

Lights  _flared_  and his head broke water. He took a gasping breath and his head slipped back under and he almost choked but he didn't care. A second later he resurfaced again and Todd was there, hands reaching out, and together they manhandled Tintin and the sack back onto solid ground, by way of one of the many little stone-stepped jetties that ducked into the river for such an occasion. Still gasping for air and shivering badly, Tintin worked his numbed fingers until the knot tied around the sack opened, ignoring Todd's frightened chastising.

"What the  _hell_  did you do that for?"

"Anything can be a story," Tintin said through chattering teeth. "Jack says."

"The hell with Jack! You could have  _drowned!_  Do you have any idea how cold it is? How cold the river is? What's  _wrong_  with you? What on  _earth_  is in that sack that's so bloody important?"

"Dogs," Tintin said unhappily. He showed the open sack to Todd. Inside, a small pack of forlorn, white pups kicked and yowled weakly.

"Poor sods!" Todd said, his anger dissipating quickly in the face of such adorableness. "Come on: my place is closer. We'll get you some warm clothes and figure out what to do next."

x

Todd rented a room in a more upmarket boarding house nearby. While Todd dried the tiny pups off, Tintin hurriedly took a shower and dressed in a pair of his friend's jeans and an old blue jumper that was warm and clean. Happy to be warm again, he kneeled down beside the electric heater with Todd, the pups mewling and crawling all over one another in confusion and excitement, the two natural states of pups and other young animals.

"Watch out for him: he's an explorer," Tintin said as he picked up one pup, a chubby one with an inquisitive expression on its face, and placed it back in the middle with its brothers and sisters. "What can we do for them?"

"Bring them up to the vet first thing in the morning?" Todd suggested. "They'll know what to do. Where to send them. Anyway, I've given them some milk. I've no idea what to feed them. Other than the obvious," he added, "and I don't have any dog food."

"Google it," Tintin said promptly, his hand automatically reaching for his phone in his pocket.

"How did we live without Google?"

"Like animals, that's how. Oh, good grief! No!" Tintin clasped his head for a second, his face frozen in horror. He jumped up and began pulling his soaking jeans from the radiator, pawing through the pockets.

"Oh! You didn't!" Todd put his hand over his mouth and started to laugh.

"Yes, I did!" Tintin took his phone over to the sink, pouring the river water from it as he disassembled it. He held up the sodden battery and looked over at Todd, his face dismal. "Think I'll get a refund?" he asked sheepishly.

Still laughing, Todd shook his head. "Classic case of water damage, mate."

"Classic case of my owned damned fault. Watch that pup again!" The chubby fellow had separated from the group again and was cautiously exploring the floor. They watched as it nosed around a pile of laundry, finally selecting a black sock to chew.

"Awww," said Tintin. "Bless him!"

"Hey!" said Todd, grabbing the sock from the pup. "That's my good sock!"

"One good sock?" Tintin raised his eyebrows knowingly.

"What can I say? It gets lonely in bed sometimes." Todd stroked the sock fondly.

"That's so attractive. I can't believe you're still single. Look, it's getting really late now: I should go."

"I'll get a bag for your clothes." He pulled an old shopping bag out of a drawer and flicked it across the room. Tintin caught it out of the air.

Gathering up his clothes, he dumped them into the bag. "Cheers, Todd. Are you ok to sort out the dogs?"

"I think I can manage to get down to the vets. Go halves on it?"

"Sure. Are we still on for that rally tomorrow?" Tintin asked.

"Classic cars? Of course!" Todd's face lit up at the idea. "I'll meet you at the bus stop at 10, yes?"

"Just outside the park," Tintin confirmed. He saluted his friend as he left. "I'll see you then."


End file.
